


i'm tryna be nasty with some respect

by harperuth



Series: i keep shit safe so i'm never sorry [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Come play, Deadlock and Hot Rod both have very poor understandings of what safe sane and consensual means, Dubious Consent, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, There's So Many Fluids Deadlock Is Disgusting And Hot Rod Ain't Much Better, Unsafe Blood Play, aft play, cross faction relationship, spitting, unsafe D/s practices, valve slapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-12 22:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21484063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harperuth/pseuds/harperuth
Summary: me: god i would love too if like hot rod just accepted a bunch of stuff like "guess that's how decepticons be!!" and no. it's not. your boyfriend is a monster.k: FUCK LMFAOj: fdjkhdjs years later megatron finds out and is retroactively OFFENDED-Or, Five Times Hot Rod Accepted Deadlock's Weird Slag As "Normal For Those Silly Decepticons," And One Time Deadlock Accepted Hot Rod's Weird Slag As "Normal For Those Soft-Sparked Autobots."
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Hot Rod
Series: i keep shit safe so i'm never sorry [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626400
Comments: 37
Kudos: 255





	i'm tryna be nasty with some respect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stiction/gifts).

> thank you to k for the brain worms, i hope this helps you accept deadlock fully into your heart. and if it does the opposite...then i'm so sorry.
> 
> and shout out to the robo-nasty channel for cheering and giving suggestions while i wrote
> 
> title is from 'stay safe' by tiny meat gang

1.

The coordinates were always for abandoned buildings, generally manufacturing. Hot Rod would pick his way there carefully, always having transform back to root once he approached the destitute campuses. Driving would absolutely destroy his tires, and Springer had _ not _ been pleased the last time he came back shredded.

(Paint he could generally get away with, dings and scrapes happened. The bites had taken some finessing, but after Arcee had to wrestle a turbofox off of him during one patrol _ three separate times _ (he swore Deadlock left something on him that attracted the slaggers) it was generally accepted that Hot Rod was going to attract bites.)

He picked his way carefully to the latest set of coordinates, headlights low and steps careful. Hot Rod wasn’t generally one for careful but after falling through one too many decrepit floors he _ may _ have learned his lesson. He wasn’t admitting anything.

(He had learned that Deadlock would still rail him into the floor even with a broken thigh strut. And that it was still processor-meltingly good with a broken thigh strut.)

He ducked through a small gap left in some debris that looked to be an old transteel smelter, and found himself in a bit of open space in the middle of the former factory floor. Every shift of his armor echoed and his energon started racing. 

The other thing about these coordinates: they were always in a place that left him ripe to be ambushed.

Hot Rod’s cooling fans clicked on, array starting to heat, and he turned slowly. There were several gaps and crannies that were entirely bathed in darkness, no matter how many times he cycled his optics. He had, however subconsciously, placed himself right in the middle of this clearing.

His gaze jumped from shadow to shadow. The thing about fragging a Con, he’d learned, was that Cons liked to _ hunt_.

For a moment he was suspended, energon running hot, fans whirring lightly, the only sound in the space. Something plinked, and Hot Rod jumped. Energon rushed to his faceplate when he realized it was lubricant dripping down onto his closed panel.

Something growled to his right. 

Hot Rod whirled around to face the sound, and was immediately tackled from behind.

“Feelin’ a little hot there, Roddy?” Deadlock growled in his audial.

“Frag off,” Hot Rod whimpered, as if he wasn’t immediately pushing his aft up into the hold, as if the Con mind games hadn’t revved his engine like nothing else, as if this wasn’t exactly what he knew he was getting into every time he answered these pings.

Cons were so weird.

2.

“Primus!” Hot Rod rushed towards Deadlock, hovering his servos over him, “Where’d you get hit? Is it patched yet? Who? What?”

Deadlock stared at him, the barest hint of amusement in his smirk.

“Is this even yours?” Hot Rod deflated, putting more space between them. Or, trying to at least.

Deadlock’s servo darted out and hooked into his chassis, dragging him back in. His smirk deepened, and the servo that wasn’t a nanomechanometer from his internals lifted to that smirk. His glossa ran through a patch of the energon that absolutely drenched his frame. Hot Rod couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to.

“Doesn’t taste like mine,” Deadlock hummed for a moment, “What do you think?”

“Do _ not_,” Hot Rod gasped, but petered off into a moan when Deadlock descended and pushed his glossa in against his own. The taste of energon was overwhelming, somehow richer and thinner than fuel. Hot Road moaned again and pushed back into the kiss.

“Well?” Deadlock pulled back, fans whirring gratifyingly.

Hot Rod dipped down and licked his own path on Deadlock’s chassis, keeping his optics on Deadlock’s while he did, “Hm...I think I need a comparison.”

Deadlock’s engine _ whined _ and Hot Rod grinned. 

He was so lucky that Hot Rod liked all his weird Decepticon slag.

3.

“Deadlock,” He didn’t whine. Why would he be whining.

“Shush,” Deadlock slapped his aft and he yelped, “I’ll let you ride my spike later.”

“I don’t think we’ve got the time,” Hot Rod’s hips twitched and he gasped. Deadlock spanked him again, “Hngh, that’s not _ helping_.”

He dropped his head between his shoulders, desperately trying to vent heat. His hips twitched again, pushing his spike against the tease of Deadlock’s pressed together thighs. His arms trembled where they kept him propped up off the filthy ground, his aft lifted up into Deadlock’s lap to be _played_ _with_.

“Dead-Deadlock,” Hot Rod panted, stuttering when a servo rested on his aft port, rubbing a digit back and forth over it.

“Shh, Roddy,” Deadlock hummed, digits flirting with his port, pushing down but not quite _ in_, “It’ll be good. You can be good, right Roddy?”

Hot Rod shivered, all the way out to the tips of his spoiler. A whine tore its way out of his vocalizer. The digit continued to press at his aft port.

“I can be g-good,” Hot Rod whispered, hips pushing back into the contact.

“Thought so,” Deadlock hummed, “But ya gotta prove it Roddy, right? Don’t mean nothin if you ain’t worked for it.”

“Yeah,” Hot Rod turned his head to peek at Deadlock over his spoiler, “Can be good.”

Deadlock smiled at him, softer than usual, just a hint of fang peeking out. Hot Rod shivered again. The smile shifted into something a little giddier, harder. His glossa snuck past his denta and Hot Rod stared, transfixed at the oral lubricant as it rolled and gathered at the end. Hot Rod watched it stretch from the tip of his glossa, until it finally fell. He yelped at the wet splash on his aft port.

He dropped his head back down and did his best not to squirm as oral lubricant continued to spatter down on his port. The digits returned, swiping through the wet mess, pushing at his port again. Deadlock sounded almost soft as he growled, “So good, Roddy.”

Hot Rod dropped his chest to the ground, frag how filthy it was. Was he supposed to be able to keep himself up after that? Deadlock’s engine revved, and Hot Rod couldn’t imagine what he looked like. 

“Ah!” Hot Rod froze as a digit finally pushed in past his port entrance, “Deadlock!”

“So good,” Deadlock muttered, and shuffled his thighs apart just enough for Hot Rod’s spike to fall in the space between them. The movement also stretched Hot Rod’s hips that much more open. His port clenched down on the digit. Deadlock’s other servo traced his port, testing the edges where they joined, “Can you keep being good for me Roddy?”

He coupled the question with a squeeze of his thighs, rippling sensation over Hot Rod’s spike. 

“Good, can be good, please,” Hot Rod babbled, desperate. Desperate to overload, to get a proper invent, for the digit to leave, for another to join it, desperate desperate desperate, “Deadlock, _ please_.”

“Gotta relax for me Roddy,” Deadlock’s digit circled the edge of his port, drawn tight against his other, “Gotta let me in.”

Hot Rod whined and let his struts...melt. His chassis pushed even heavier into the floor, hips stretching wider as he let them fall open, spike slipping deeper between Deadlock’s thighs. And the second digit popped in.

“Good mech,” Deadlock sounded distracted, “Such a good mech for me.”

Hot Rod moaned. He didn’t even twitch as Deadlock played with his port, pushing and pulling, stretching it between his two digits. Deadlock hooked them both around the edges of his port and pulled them apart, and Hot Rod shivered from his pedes to the tips of his spoiler as he felt more oral lubricant drip down, drip _ in_.

“Oh Roddy,” Deadlock rumbled, “You’re so good for me. You wanna ride my spike?”

“Yeah,” Hot Rod whispered.

Decepticons were so freaky about foreplay.

4.

He was _ so close_. 

“Please, please, don’t stop,” Hot Rod gasped, biting down hard on his forearm as it braced him against the wall. Deadlock’s spike was a slagging miracle in his valve, and he was biting down with just the right amount of pressure on his spoiler.

Not only did Deadlock stop, but he completely withdrew his spike. And denta. Hot Rod sagged, “_Deadlock_.”

He let himself be whirled around and slammed back into the wall. Deadlock’s servo wrapping around his neck. Hot Rod tipped his head back and let his hips thrust forward.

“Such a demanding little mech anymore,” Deadlock said, sounding completely even for a mech that had just been on the edge of overload. Hot Rod opticked the spike jutting unselfconsciously between them. He moaned as some of _ his own lubricant _ dripped off it. Deadlock ignored him, “Demanding, messy little mech.”

“Big enough for you,” Hot Rod gasped as the servo around his throat tightened, just a tad, just enough for him to feel the claws pushing against an energon line.

“Big enough of a brat,” Deadlock snorted, “Do I need to treat you like a brat?”

“Does treating me like a brat get me a spike?” Hot Rod sniped back.

The slap probably shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did. But it managed to knock a few gyros off balance and left him spinning. 

“Brats get spanked, Roddy,” Deadlock was suddenly right up against his audial, “Is that what you need?”

Not want. _ Need_. Hot Rod whined before he could help it.

“I do like you pinned right here though,” Deadlock sounded like he was commenting on the weather and it was driving him up the wall, “And I can’t reach your aft like this. What’re we gonna do about that?”

The servo not pinning Hot Rod to the wall began to wander down. Hot Rod cycled his optics, trying his best to clear the last of the feedback from his momentarily offset gyros. Digits traced the flames on his chassis and paused for a long time to flirt with the vents on his hips. Hot Rod panted, hips pushing forward into the touch. 

“_No_,” Deadlock growled, nothing but menace in his tone, before he drew his hand back and _ slapped _ Hot Rod’s valve.

Hot Rod _ howled_, the pain radiating and doubling back and blooming and it all came to a head when Deadlock’s retreating servo grazed his anterior node with a claw. Lubricant spattered his thighs and his valve felt like it was trying to turn inside out with how hard it cycled down, and kept cycling, spraying lubricant down to the floor. Hot Rod sobbed, only staying upright because he knee joints had locked into place.

“_Roddy_,” Deadlock sounded ventless, “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Cons were so fragging bizarre.

5.

“_Primus_,” Hot Rod gasped, optics flickering, hip joint straining where Deadlock had hiked his leg up to a new and terrifying angle. 

But that new and terrifying angle finally granted Deadlock access to Hot Rod’s strangely placed ceiling node, and Hot Rod would suffer a possible dislocation if Deadlock kept it up, “Right _ there_.”

“Needy,” Deadlock panted, as if his own optics weren’t flashing with unspent charge. Hot Rod was chasing his fourth overload. Deadlock hadn’t had one.

“L-Like it,” Hot Rod accused, clenching down as hard as he was able. Deadlock growled and snapped his hips forward. Hot Rod wailed as his ceiling node was hit dead on, and shivered straight into overload. It felt like it stretched out forever, sensors and calipers too spent for anything explosive.

He floated back down to Deadlock straddled over him, stripping his spike, charge dancing across his plates.

“Coulda overloaded in me,” Hot Rod frowned, vocalizer almost beyond comprehension.

Deadlock froze, a growl building up in his chassis. Hot Rod opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out Deadlock’s mouth crashed down onto his. Hot Rod gasped, but couldn’t do more than reciprocate weakly. Deadlock bit down _ hard _ on his lower lip plate, and Hot Rod’s valve twitched valiantly. Deadlock sat up, towering over him. Hot Rod licked the energon from his lip and smiled dopily.

Deadlock gasped and overloaded.

All over Hot Rod’s chassis.

Hot Rod couldn’t look away as Deadlock tossed his head back, frame shaking, transfluid spilling out of him. Eventually he finished, and caught Hot Rod’s optics, satisfaction in his every movement.

“Lemme up,” Hot Rod wiggled, and realized that Deadlock was kneeling on his elbow joints, trapping him effectively to the ground, “C’mon, lemme up.”

“No,” Deadlock wasn’t looking at his face anymore, but his chassis. Hot Rod squirmed.

Deadlock’s servos drifted up, claws tracing down lines and cables in his neck. Hot Rod tried to wiggle away to no avail, “Dude, seriously, I can’t get a charge up again for at least a groon. You’ve absolutely spent me.”

“Poor used up little Roddy,” Deadlock cooed, his servos continuing to trail downward, before they slid through his own transfluid, “Ain’t ya a sight for sore optics.”

He played idly with Hot Rod’s chassis, and Hot Rod gasped, a small zing crossing his sensornet despite his assertions. Deadlock ignored his movement, pushing transfluid around Hot Rod’s chassis, tucking it into seams, spreading it thin across plating to dry. He pushed some deep into a transformation seam, claws nicking a wire on their way out that made Hot Rod whimper.

“Hm,” Deadlock inspected his servos, and finally looked Hot Rod in the optics, “Open.”

“Wha-” Hot Rod yelped, muffled around the digits pressing onto his glossa.

“Good mech,” Deadlock smirked when Hot Rod’s engine revved. Hot Rod glared, but closed his mouth and sucked, tasting ozone and energon and transfluid. Frag.

“Now,” Deadlock leaned down, lip plates nearly flush with Hot Rod’s audial, “You’re gonna drive away from here, and head right to your commissary. I want you to sit and talk and be seen, knowing you’re covered in my transfluid for at least a groon.”

Hot Rod moaned around the digits, working his glossa in between them.

“Brat,” Deadlock licked his audial. He shivered, “You don’t get to go to the washracks until you’ve self-serviced enough to cover yourself all over again.”

Hot Rod bit lightly at the digits. Deadlock knew full well that his tank was almost empty right now. 

Strange Con slag.

1.

Peace seemed like a strange concept, after killing for nearly his entire functioning.

Deadlock opticked the strange sight of the Ark stuck partially out of the volcano. 

Ceasefire, tentative peace, less tentative the more they ferried parties every which way across Shockwave’s space bridge. While Earth held little interest for any Decepticon who’d spent the war stationed on Cybertron, it did boast one thing: a fully trained medic that didn’t take any slag.

Deadlock hopped on one of the first few bridges over, unable to stop rubbing at his chest plates despite it showcasing the obvious weakness.

He’d tried to blame the off-center feeling in his spark to his uneasiness with the peace agreement, some kind of instinct that he hadn’t been able to interpret yet. But the ache persisted, and at this point felt like it was getting worse. It was like his spark was no longer sitting straight in it’s chamber and he _ hurt_.

He tread lightly up to the Ark with the half a unit he’d been travelling with, and ignored the part of him that was trying to point out that Earth had more than the Hatchet, it had _ Hot Rod_.

“I’m getting sent to Earth,” Hot Rod had whispered at their last meeting, fans still running so high that they’d almost drowned out the words. Deadlock heard them though. He always heard what Hot Rod said.

“Don’t get shot by Megatron,” Deadlock had answered, instead of no. No, don’t go. I’ll miss you. He’d kissed Hot Rod one last time, gouging deep scratches on his chest plate, right over his spark. _ Don’t forget me_.

He lingered near the back of the group as they were led and filed into the Autobot’s medbay. A smaller bot with medic in training markings seemed to be doing intake. Deadlock feigned ease, lounging back against the wall, still unable to stop rubbing at his chestplate. The paint was starting to wear.

“YOU,” A voice yelled, and Deadlock _ jumped_. Primus, how sick was he? And there he was, the Hatchet himself, stalking towards Deadlock in a manner he supposed had cowed others into submission. Deadlock merely lifted an orbital ridge.

“Me,” He agreed mildly, wincing when he felt his spark throb.

“My scanner picked up your slagged to hell energies from the other side of the bay,” Ratchet herded him over to a medberth as he ranted. Deadlock didn’t object. This was why he was here after all, “What did you _ do _ to your spark?”

“I didn’t _ do _ anything,” Deadlock objected, “It just aches.”

“For how long?” Ratchet plugged a datapad into his medical port, and Deadlock would almost be insulted that Ratchet hadn’t once actually looked _ at _him, but frankly this was much more comfortable.

_ Since Hot Rod left for Earth_, Deadlock didn’t say. He shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s gotten worse the past few quartex.”

“Months,” Ratchet’s tone went flat, “Possible spark injury for months and you what? Ignored it?”

“Exactly that,” Deadlock agreed, then in-vented sharply as his spark throbbed again.

Ratchet glared down at the datapad, then rolled his optics so hard that Deadlock wondered how often he had to treat them for strain, “Oh, for Pit’s sake.”

“What,” Deadlock narrowed his optics, leaning into his space.

“Oh, back up, you’re not even remotely scary as you think you are,” Ratchet waved a servo at him, and Deadlock retreat from sheer shock, “Where’s your bondmate?”

“Bondmate?” Deadlock repeated dumbly.

“Yes,” Ratchet rolled his optics again, “You’re bondmate. I can’t believe this bond has held looking at the shape it’s in, but that’s what the pain is. The bond needs to be revitalized.”

“Bondmate? What’s-” Deadlock cut himself off, quite done with sounding like he completely lacked a processor. His spark throbbed again and it was so intense he curled in on himself, scraping at his chest plate.

He heard Ratchet at a distance saying, “Oh, for fuck’s-” before he was cut off.

“Ratch!” 

Deadlock’s spark throbbed again. He forced his optics up, trying to keep a line of sight on the room, and froze. Hot Rod was being dragged in by that pink femme he hung out with all the time. He was hunched over, clearly in pain. Deadlock’s optics were drawn to his chest plates. The thin, painted over but not filled in gouges right across his spark. 

The patch of rubbed away paint that mirrored Deadlock’s own.

“-And he just yelped and started scratching at his chest,” The femme was finishing when he tuned back in.

“I am not explaining this one to Ultra Magnus,” Ratchet griped, clearly having already put the pieces that Deadlock was just grasping at together, “And you!” He pointed at Hot Rod, “Are going to get an earful later about _ not reporting spark pains_.”

Ratchet unplugged the datapad from Deadlock’s port and dragged him off the berth, shoving him at Hot Rod, “Go. Find a private room. Clang your lights out. I don’t get paid enough to deal with this.”

Deadlock approached Hot Rod in a daze. The medbay had gotten quiet at some point, and it took Deadlock a long few seconds to realize the low growl permeating the room was from him. He wrapped a servo around Hot Rod’s elbow joint and glared at the femme, “_Mine_.”

“Deadlock?” Hot Rod sounded shocked, in pain. Deadlock yanked at his arm until she let go and he cradled Hot Rod to his chest.

“Hey there Roddy,” Deadlock managed, over the resounding chorus of _ mine mine mine _ in his processor, “Long time, no see.”

A servo planted itself between his shoulders and shoved, “Not in my medbay! Get a room and for Primus’s sake renew the bond!”

“Bond?” Hot Rod shook himself a little bit and pushed away from Deadlock a bit. Deadlock growled again before he could stop himself, “Whaddya mean bond?”

The silence in the medbay was loaded, dangling on the edge of a precipice.

“Rod,” The femme said slowly, “You do know...you...did you share your spark?”

“Yeah,” Hot Rod shrugged, “What does that have to do with bonding?”

“Deadlock?” The femme sounded completely flummoxed.

“I thought it was an Autobot thing. Spark interfacing or whatever. The sappy slag.”

The noise in the medbay erupted.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me about nasty bots on twitter @floralpunkcfb


End file.
